


we're a thousand miles and poles apart

by redbrunja



Series: we russians have nothing but our winter [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:05:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: To any outside observer, it would appear that Gaby was having a lovely evening.





	

To any outside observer, it would appear that Gaby was having a lovely evening.

She and Illya were at Napoleon's flat. There was delicious food on the table, lit candles, a bottle of red wine. Napoleon was dramatically retelling how he and Gaby had spent their Saturday night, with surprisingly few embellishments. They'd gone to the opening for an _avant garde_ sculptor and both hated the art.

Napoleon had pretended he found it "bold" and "enticing" so she'd argue with him.

They'd strolled through the exhibit, both of them using received pronunciation accents (Napoleon's, she could admit, was much better than hers), and debating the artistic merit of the sculptures. The artist himself had shown up and decided to respond to Gaby's criticism with insults of his own. The ensuing verbal fracas had gotten both she and Napoleon thrown out of the gallery.

Napoleon's retelling required very little of her - only occasional comments. It shouldn't have been a challenge, tracking the conversation, paying attention to when she needed to speak. Gaby had once spent an evening charming a paranoid fascist while suffering from a concussion and a throbbing gunshot graze across her left thigh. There was no reason why mimicking happiness in the face of a lovely meal and her two favorite people in the world should be more difficult.

There was no reason for her to be unhappy.

She knew that Napoleon had picked this particular conversational topic to hide her listless affect. He also hadn't commented on the fact that she'd mangled her serving of Beef Wellington instead of eating it while downing three glasses of red wine. Normally that kind of thing was a grave insult that he'd spend most of the evening pouting about.

Solo was a good friend. (He'd be impossible to live with if she ever told him so.)

Across from her, Illya frowned as Napoleon's recitation continued to what they'd done _after_ they'd been emphatically requested to leave the art gallery. She'd known Illya long enough to know when he was feigning disapproval.

"And you needed Gaby with you, when you broke into the British Museum?" Illya asked. His accent was heavier than normal; the wine or relaxation deepening the consonants.

A beat, and Napoleon said lightly, "she needed something to cleanse her artistic palate."

Gaby realized that she should spoken. She took a belated swallow of wine. When she lowered her glass, Illya was watching her, a furrow between his brows.

She gave him a practiced smile.

He didn't look mollified.

During that morning's briefing, Waverly had informed them that Illya was required in Moscow, and would be flying out first thing the next morning. The rest of the meeting had been involved in the minutiae of revising an upcoming mission. Before they'd parted to their separate daily tasks, Napoleon had insisted they join him at his flat for dinner.

It wasn't the first time the Kremlin had yanked Illya's leash. Gaby told herself there was no reason to think it would be the last.

She poured herself another glass of wine.

She and Illya didn't stay for dessert.

Out on the street, Gaby took a deep breath, inhaling a lungful of damp, sooty air.

Illya hesitated, standing at her back. She finished buttoning her coat and then reached back, tapped him on the shoulder with the back of her fingers

"Walk me home," she ordered.

They didn't speak as they headed to Gaby's flat, climbed the stairs upwards. She unlocked her door, tossed her keys on the table next to the door.

Illya took her coat, hung it on the coat rack. He did the same with his jacket and Gaby was suddenly _furious._

She launched herself at him, legs around his waist, the fingers of her right hand hooking under the straps of his shoulder holster.

There was a thud as Illya's back met the door of the flat.

She kissed him, hard. He had one hand buried in her hair, the other pressed against the small of her back.

He shifted and she knew he was going to turn, to press her against the door. That wasn't what she wanted.

She viciously dug the heel of her shoe into the back of his thigh, swallowed the sound he made. He went to his knees, fell forward. He slammed one hand down, catching them.

She had her legs tight around his waist, her arms around his shoulders. She pressed herself even more firmly against him, a sinuous motion that promised wicked things. She nipped his ear, too firmly to be truly playful, and then lowered herself to the floor.

The carpet prickled against the back of her thighs, her rump as she bit Illya's bottom lip, her legs still loosely draped around his hips. She set herself to his unbuckling his holster, the familiar leather straps giving under the work of her fingers. She tossed the gun aside, the weapon thudding against the hallway carpet in a tangle of leather.

He leaned back, both of them tugging his turtleneck over his head, mussing his hair.

Gaby could hear her breathing, loud, louder than it should be, her pulse beating hard her throat.

She ran her hands over his chest, tracing the familiar lines of his muscles. She let him tip her flat onto her back, his hands clutching at her thighs. Then his calloused fingers were under her skirt, unfastening her garters, unfastening the thigh holster holding her knife, peeling her underthings away, satin and lace and steel.

Her dress had a finicky little zipper under her left arm. Illya knew this. Maybe her urgency was driving him on, maybe he just needed her as badly as she needed him. He hooked his fingers in the bodice of her dress, ripped it open. She arched her back, moving into the shocking, cool kiss of the air against her breasts and belly.

Illya inhaled sharply and then bent his head. He laved his tongue across her nipple, bit gently.

She gave a little moan and twisted her fingers in his hair just because she could.

His mouth was on her throat as he freed himself. There was the click of his belt, the sound of his zipper sliding down and then the hot head of his cock pressed against her pussy, exactly where she wanted it.

She bucked up as he entered her, taking him, taking all of him, deep. The stretch of his dick– she wasn't that wet yet, and it almost hurt, it was perfect, it made every drop of her blood feel electrified, nothing had ever felt as right as his weight on her, his cock inside her.

Her nails raked his shoulders and she moaned.

"Harder," Illya requested, voice rough.

She took his mouth with hers. She kissed him, bit at his lips hard enough that the taste of copper and salt bloomed across her tongue.

"After you," she replied.

There was just enough light in the hallway to see his pupils dilate, the black almost drowning out the blue of his eyes.

Illya curled his hands around her shoulders, held her in place while he snapped his hips forward, fucked into her.

Gaby scratched his shoulders bloody, writhed under him, her worries and fears drowned out by the slap of flesh against flesh, her climax blotting everything but base pleasure from her mind.

~~~~~

Gaby leaned forward, slipping a bright, enamel earring into her lobe. In the mirror, she saw Illya stir, roll to his side. His hair was sleep-mussed, bite-marks and scratches scattered along his shoulders. For a moment, he looked at her with lazy, banked affection and then he realized she was fully dressed and his gaze sharpened. He sat up, the blanket sliding down to his waist.

She slid the second earring into her other earlobe.

She was wearing a fresh dress, her hair twisted up into a knot at the crown of her head. She'd redone her make-up and the woman in the mirror looked immaculate, untouchable.

"There are some things I need to finish at H.Q.," she told Illya. He knew as well as she did that there was nothing waiting for her at headquarters that required her to slip into a blue dress and her favorite heels and head across the city at 3:42 a.m.

His jaw tightened, hands curling into fists, but he said nothing.

It was only then that she was able to turn, to look at him directly.

"Make sure to lock up when you leave," she said nonchalantly.

"I will," Illya answered, voice low. His face was unreadable.

There was nothing else to say. Gaby left her bedroom, heels clicking against the wood floor. She didn't let herself look back at him, warm and naked in her bed.

She wasn't going to ask him to stay. But she wasn't going to watch him leave, either.


End file.
